Once More
by PhantomProducer
Summary: After two years of peace, the unthinkable happens, and Steve Rogers must step back into the role of hero before time runs out. AU from "Age of Ultron" on. Part 5.5 of the "Of Time" series.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** …Hi, everyone. It has been awhile since we've made a full journey into the Of Time universe, huh? Well…we're doing it again, my friends.

It's not so much as a Part Six as a…Part 5.5. Kind of how _Captain America: Civil War_ should really have been _The Avengers 2.5_ , but I digress.

We are taking another leap into the _Of Time_ series, fast-forwarding a couple of years into the future to do so.

For the newcomers: as I have stated, this is part of my established series for Captain America called the _Of Time_ series. Due to that, I will recommend you read the five main stories prior to this one. Otherwise, there will be plot points and characters mentioned, plus motivations, that will not make sense and are not necessarily canonical. Truth be told, it has not been canonical since roughly the end of _Age of Ultron_ on, so that is something to keep in mind. To eradicate confusion, please read those stories first.

Lastly, I will iterate that this story is UNBETA'ED. Nowadays, I have a more typical 9-to-5 schedule, but it can still vary enough that having a beta reader is not feasible. Therefore, I edit, proofread, and alter my stories myself. If I have made any errors, there are my own, and I apologize.

That's enough for now…onward to the story…

* * *

 **October 3** **rd** **, 2020**

A sigh poured out of the young woman as she checked the list on her phone. In one arm, she balanced her youngest child, the small girl clinging to her like a koala. Around her shoulder, her purse straps were looped, and she had the plastic straps of store bags cutting into her forearm. She grimaced as her back ached, the weight borne with little grace. Her other hand was filled, her son's small palm gripping hers as they walked. He had taken her admonishments seriously when they had entered the mall, not letting go of her hand except to hold onto the sweatshirt she had tied around her waist.

She would not have put it past him to run off if he had the chance, inquisitive little bugger that he was, and so she had to phrase it as "so important" and "setting an example for his sister, since he was older." The sense of duty in the child seemed abnormal, but the young mother chalked it up to the father's influence.

After all, Holly Rogers didn't think she could expect any less from the son of the former Captain America.

Taking the Saturday off from managing her bookstore (the gift of the lease given to her by Tony Stark was building, slowly), she had wanted to go to the mall outside of Gloversville for a few things. As much as she and her husband loved the village they lived outside of, it did not have much to offer for shopping variety. She needed to get a couple new pairs of pants for Grant—the boy was growing all the time, and was among the tallest of the four-year-olds in his preschool class—as well as finding a gift for her nephew's upcoming birthday. He was still in that age range that enjoyed action figures and Legos, so she felt better about the selection to be had at the mall.

The time had shown that they had been wandering around, and having made purchases, for a couple of hours by that point. The child in her grip grunted, nestling her face against her shoulder as her son tipped his head back.

"Mommy, can we go home?" Grant asked, her hand being tugged as well. Looking down, she smiled at the speaker. Blue eyes peered up at her, and his lip went out in a small pout. "I'm hungry."

"Hungwy," crooned the toddler in her mother's arm, agreeing with her brother. Holly darted a glance to Iris, grinning tiredly as the child brushed blonde strands out her dark eyes and failed to tuck them back. Looking from her back to Grant, she let out a slow exhale.

"I know you both want to get outta here." She squeezed her son's palm, and nuzzled her daughter's hair. "Just a couple more minutes. Mommy has to stop in that store to pick something up."

She nodded to the store at the end, the one with a big red W above it (Grant was already learning his alphabet, and was proud that he knew what the letter was). Eagerly, he picked up his pace, recognizing the store as well. Mommy had talked about getting candy there after Halloween that year, though Daddy had said something about sugar being the last thing Grant needed more of.

Maybe Mommy would get him some candy, anyway. Daddy liked it, too, though he liked to pretend otherwise.

"Whatcha gettin' now?" the boy dared to ask his mother. She squeezed his palm again, helping guide him around some of the people walking

"Something just for mommies to use," she told him, and he frowned.

"Hmph," he grunted. It wasn't something his mother told him often, but the few times he could remember being told that something was for grown-ups only, and that he would understand when he was older, he had felt irritated.

Holly looked down at him again, the dark brown waves of her hair shifting as she watched him march along with her. As antsy and excitable as he could be at times, Grant really had been on his best behavior on the trip. Iris, too, had been sweet, rarely crying or demanding of anything other than getting something to eat earlier. Meltdowns did not happen often with either of them, but she knew her children could be capable of such displays.

That they weren't after trudging up and down the mall for so long made her proud and pleased.

Pausing in her steps, she waited until her son met her gaze again, curiosity flooding his bright irises.

"Tell you what, Grant: you and Iris have both been so good today, how about we get some ice cream on the way home?" she asked him, the corner of her mouth lifting. Iris raised her head, the promise of a treat making her squeal with delight.

Grant, too, was beaming, swinging his and his mother's arms back and forth in his excitement.

"Really? Okay!" he said, hopping from foot to foot. Holly smiled at her children, warmth filling her throughout.

"Okay, so you both just gotta be good until I get my mommy thing, and then—"

A loud, horrible bang echoed through the open air of the mall, the high ceilings and wide walls allowing it to travel rapidly. Grant and Iris had been startled by the noise, but what truly had Holly cringing were the screams that started to build. The crowds around them split off, some people running in the direction of the exits, and others heading to the nearest stores in a bid for safety. Gates began to slide down left and right, some people diving under benches and behind kiosks. Unable to process what was happening, Grant felt something curl around his stomach and hoist him up. Holly started to jog, wanting to get her children away from whatever it was that was threatening the mall.

Her heart hammered wildly in her chest. Two years of peace, two years of quiet with her husband retired and their family settling into the home had lulled her into a false sense of safety. All her times spent in school, running drills for attackers and shooters came flying back into her mind. She had grown up in dangerous times, when people brought guns to movie theaters, clubs, and schools and killed with no remorse. And with her husband being who he was...she should not have thought that retirement might mean the world would let them be.

It was never that simple.

Turning a corner, Holly pressed her back against the wall, gasping for air. The hard wheezes were not enough to drown out the shouts and screams, nor did they distract her from the wails of her daughter. Grant, having shifted to cling as well as he could to her, was likewise breathing heavily, his innocent gaze darting to her.

"Mommy?" he whispered, his voice shaking with unshed tears. Holly opened her mouth, more gasps flying out, when stomping steps started to echo. Swallowing hard, she dared to peek around the corner. Her heart simultaneously froze and sank. Several men—and a couple women, judging by their builds—were strapped into black tactical gear. Some were holding guns, others had them strapped and holstered in. Hard helmets capped their heads, and their faces all had black paint smeared over them. They had halted in one of the atriums a fair distance away, hauling up people and holding them midair. One old man was in a burly fellow's grip, being shaken as he demanded answers.

"—Saw her go this way," the fellow's voice ground out, the growling echoing and reverberating as he demanded answers. "You see a brown-haired bitch with two brats run by?"

Ducking back around, Holly's gaze shifted frantically around wide hall, landing on a nondescript door. It was her best option the nearest exit was too far away, and she knew the risks were climbing the longer she stalled, or kept running through the mall. Hustling over to it, she put her son back onto his feet, telling him to grab her sweatshirt as she pried the door open. The panels gave way, and Holly pushed through the door then, Grant shuffling alongside her and Iris. She slammed it shut behind them, and took stock of their surroundings again. It was an old service hall, gray concrete broken up by the odd door or two. Several carts lined the hall as well, some filled with scraps from store remodels and another with mannequin pieces. Quickly, she put Iris and the bags down, instructing Grant to hold onto his sister. The two children watched as their mother shoved a trash-laden cart in front of the door, blocking access as swiftly as she could. Huffing and puffing, Holly braced a hand on her stomach as she tried to catch her breath. She did not pause for long, instead turning back to her children and holding out her arms to them. Carrying a four-year-old and a toddler would be no sinecure, but she knew she would be able to get them to safety faster that way. The purse was picked up, too, though the shopping bags were left behind.

Trying to run, Holly could only manage an abbreviated jog, her determination to get her children somewhere safe bolstering her. A twist and a turn later, she was in another service hall, though there was a door close at hand. Biting her lip, she came to the fast conclusion of hiding them inside, if it were open.

The black-garbed people were looking for her. She would not let them have her boy and girl.

Grant was put back onto his feet, his worried whimpers mingling with his sister's as Holly wrenched at the door handle and shouldered the panels. After a few thumps, it finally yielded, the light from the hall flooding in. Quickly, she seized Grant's hand and pulled him in with her and Iris. Kicking the door shut with her foot, Holly looked around the room while trying to breathe properly again.

Boxes were stacked up on shelves, each one labeled for one of the grossly-overpriced stores they had avoided that afternoon. The shelving units jutted out from the walls, creating a small alcove. Putting Iris and her purse down, Holly grabbed the lip of an opened box, tugging it down and spilling its contents across the floor. Hastily, she shoved the clothes into the alcove, making a cushion. Ushering her children over, she sat Grant down first, resolution hardening within her as she made Iris sit on his lap and instructed him to hold her. He complied, but his little sister was not pleased.

"Mama!" Iris cried, struggling in her brother's arms to get to Holly as tears dripped down her cheeks. Trying his best to hold onto his wriggling sister, the young boy groaned.

"Mommy," Grant tried to say, only to be met by his mother's finger being placed over his lips.

"Shh!" she hushed him, her voice no louder than a whisper. Turning, she dug around in her purse, pulling out something that looked like the tin she had mints in. It was small and black, a bright red light on it flashing when she pressed a button on the side. Pressing it into his hand, she murmured, "Grant, you stay here with your sister. Hold onto this. Do not make a sound or come out, no matter what you hear."

"But, but—"

"I have to go, make sure they don't hurt either of you," she explained, cupping his cheek then. Looking him directly in the eyes, she pushed down her fright and told him, "Wait here until your dad comes, okay? Wait for Daddy."

The deep fear in his eyes was impossible to overlook, and she had to choke back a sob at the utter terror and confusion her children were feeling in that moment. Biting her lip, she paused until Grant nodded, mumbling a promise to hide until their father could come. Knowing that time was running out, Holly surged forward, clutching her children in her arms once more.

"Love you, Grant," she said to her son, a peck dropped in his hair before she planted one in her daughter's too. "Love you, Iris."

When she let go, she felt the devastation ripple from the two children, but she would not linger. Every second spent there put Grant and Iris in further danger, and she would rather die herself than do that to them. She scooted back, snatching up her purse and hastily ducking out the supply room door.

"Mama," she heard Iris sob, her heart wrenching as her boy shushed her. She felt cracking in her soul as she turned the inward lock, and her son's voice crowing low broke her heart into smaller pieces.

"Shh, Rissy, shh."

Silently shutting the door, Holly took in a shaky breath, listening for any signs of the attackers. Shouts and screams could be heard in the distance, boots stomping along as well, and she inhaled deeply. In one swift motion, she brought up her purse, slamming it onto the door handle. After another couple of swings, the handle broke off, effectively locking the door and preventing the unknown attackers from getting in. She was never more thankful that her bag was always filled to bursting and heavy those days (two toddlers and a reading habit meant she had so many objects in there). Hurriedly, she snatched up the handle, jogging away from the door, tears flooding into her eyes as she ran. Hurtling through the halls, she found herself lost in the warren of back hallways. Dodging around, she could hear the nearby tramping of boots, and her stomach dropped.

At the end of the hall, an emergency exit door was propped open, three more men rushing in. The small spark of hope in her had died when she saw the tactical gear, and the three of them halting upon spotting her. The tallest of the three pointed at her, and they all rushed over to her. Her fear made her instinctively back up a few paces, but she forced herself not run back. She needed to keep her children safe; she would not let whoever these people were find them. As they drew closed, she widened her stance, a familiar voice whispering at the back of her brain to put herself in a stronger position for defense. Her breath stuttered when she spotted something else upon the approaching men: though tattered and shredding, the remains of a patch, half the top of a skull and a worn tentacle or two was stitched into the shoulder plating.

HYDRA, even after all that time, was still there, lurking in the shadows and threatening all. Her lips thinned as her heart pounded in dread.

The lead fellow, his black-painted face splitting as he grinned grimly, palmed a walkie-talkie that had been clipped to his belt. Depressing the button, he spoke into it, revealing their location and their discovery. Instructions to detain came back, the wiry garble grinding on her ears. Holly frowned, but otherwise stayed still (even though every synapse was sparking and screaming for her to run).

"Where are the kids?" the tall fellow asked, staring her down. Her insides quaked, but she feigned bravado, lifting her chin. Did they really think she would give up her children that easily?

"Fuck you," she grunted, practically spitting on him. The fellow in front of her rolled his eyes, not phased by the cursing at all. Instead, he strode closer, hand darting out swiftly. Catching her by her throat, he squeezed. It was enough to threaten, but not harm. On impulse, her free hand grasped his wrist, and her chin rose, sharp breaths floating out her nose.

No, he would not harm her, no matter how much he wished to.

"Answer me," he grumbled, thumb pressing in a little more to accentuate his point.

"I did," she spat as best she could. Narrowing her eyes, she continued, "I said, FUCK YOU!"

Before it could register with either, her knee came up, smashing squarely into his privates. For the briefest second, she felt elation; she was glad the man had no cup on in the tactical gear. As he groaned and bent, and before his compatriots could grab her, she rapidly swung her purse, clipping the man along the jaw. He yelped as he fell, though he did manage to grab the purse as he went. She went down as well, though she took advantage of the fall by rolling away from another would-be captor. The purse split, the contents scattering on the floor. Hastily, she snatched up two things she always carried with her for protection: the collapsible bat she had been gifted years ago, and a canister of pepper spray.

The second fellow, only a couple inches taller than her, surged forward, only to screech and fall back in pain. Holly had just thumbed the button on the end of the bat, extending it, and it plowed directly into the man's nose. A sickening crunch was heard, and as he stumbled back, she felt her throat constrict. Unlike her husband, and his friends, she was not used to the sound of breaking bones, and it made her sick to think about. She had little time to spare for the thought, though, as the first fellow was recovering from his temporary wounds and the third was not willing to sit idly by any longer. Wildly, she brandished her bat, trying to keep them far enough away to release the spray from the canister. Old training kicked in, Clint Barton's voice commanding her to drop her knee there, drive back her elbow here.

However, she was one woman, and an average one at that. She was no Avenger, unlikely the majority of her acquaintance those days. Her fighting skills left much to be desired. Soon enough, the bat was taken out of her grip, the canister of pepper spray only emitting one blast before it was likewise knocked away. Sputtering and coughing along with her assailants, she attempted to run through the tear-inducing haze, she tripped over her own feet. Crawling along the floor, she felt hands wrap around her ankles, pulling her back into the fray. Flailing, she tried to punch the grabber, but instead felt the shock of electric prongs sting her side. The intensity of the pain was enough to shake her into unconsciousness, the fight ending with little ceremony.

All three fellows glanced at one another, tears from the spray dissipating as they wondered at her. For being only a civilian, she had put up more of a fight than they had anticipated. The third fellow pocketed his stun gun while the second finally removed his gloved hands from around his face.

"Bwode my fuggin' node..." he moaned, revealing the smear of blood and the bend of the appendage. The first fellow shook his head, shifting to accommodate his aching parts as well.

Gesturing to Holly's prone form, he grunted, "Grab her, we gotta get out of here."

The third man raised his chin, flicking a look over the barren hall. "What about—"

The first man cut him off, shaking his head hard.

"How much do you want to bet reinforcements for her are on the way now?" he asked rhetorically, seeing the understanding dawn on his compatriots' faces. From the moment the operation began, they knew time would be of the essence. If anybody fell in the process, they would be left behind, it was at that level. Readjusting his stance and wincing, he muttered, "This was supposed to be a fast job. It's taken too long. Screw the kids; she's the one they really need, anyway."

The second man nodded in agreement, swearing under his breath as the sensation pierced his broken nose. The other two looked to one another silently before picking Holly up. She slumped as one gathered up her legs, and the last supported her shoulders. Running fast, the first man radioed out to the other operatives, informing them that the person of interest had been detained, and it was time to move out.

In the storage room, Iris burrowed against her brother's shoulder, her sobs turning to sniffling as the seconds ticked by. The loud yells and screams, the stomping boots, all had faded in the last few minutes, leaving the two children in relative quiet. Grant had one arm wound tightly around his sister, humming and rocking her like his mommy did whenever one of them was hurt. Despite wanting to be a big boy, Grant could not help but cry, too. He was so afraid, so scared that something had happened to Mommy.

Where did she go? Why didn't she stay with them? They were scared, she knew they were scared. And she was scared, too. She had to protect them, she said, from somebody. They must have been bad, he concluded; only bad people would want to go after them like that. He wanted his mother so badly, but remembering her frantic words, he clutched the tiny device she'd given him, his thumb pressing the button on and off.

"Daddy, come fast," the little boy whispered, maintaining his mantra as time crawled on. Daddy would fix it, Daddy would save them.

After all, Daddy used to be a superhero.

He would find them. He would help Mommy. Everything would be okay once Daddy got there. Grant knew it.

It just had to be.

* * *

 **A/N 2** :…So, we start a bit intense, huh?

Again, to the newcomers, I did tell you I would be diverging from canon, so the fact that Steve Rogers is married to Holly and has two children with her should not be a surprise at this point.

Honestly, I feel like I'm falling a bit into a trope here, having Holly get captured and needing to be rescued…but I blame the comic book genre for perpetuating that one. Heroes have to go and save those in peril, right? And one can't argue that she's not in peril.

However, this was one of those ideas that will not leave me alone or fade. I have truly been sitting on it for over a year and a half at this point, and I am ready to get into it.

You may have also noticed I rated this story M. That's because things are going to get more intense, and frankly, I don't want the trouble of rating it T and then having someone report me for the cursing and the future events. If it doesn't merit the rating, I'll change it, but I would rather play it safe for now.

No Steve yet, but trust me, he's coming…

Due to my work, it may take me a while between posts, so I will have to ask for your patience in the meantime. You can always check out my Twitter, PhanProTweets, for any updates since sometimes this website can be a little spotty with the delivery system.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	2. Chapter 2

Steve Rogers blew out a soft breath, letting his gaze wander over the room and grinning to himself in contentment. That Saturday had been a busy one, but he was glad for it.

Retirement from the Avengers had not caused him to lose his tendencies to keep himself occupied, but the last two years had altered what he did with the time.

It was strange to think about, leaving the world's foremost response team, but he had done so with no regrets. In the years out, he had turned to being a stay-at-home dad for his children. In between play-wrestling with his son or attempting to help his daughter braid her hair (like Uncle Thor, she'd said, and he couldn't help but chuckle a little at the memory), he'd also resumed his own education. Online courses were attended, which still threw him for a loop on occasion—no matter how far he'd come, he was still a fella from the 40's, and taking college classes without going to a physical building was slightly strange. Once Holly, his wife, had been granted the deed to her bookstore and quit her position at the Avengers base, the distance between his recent past and his present grew a little wider.

That wasn't to say that all ties were cut, of course. Bucky, after all, was Captain America now, and his best friend besides. He had remained team leader, his position solidified entirely after three years with the moniker. In his rare downtime, however, he could be found at the Rogers house, the years and horrors of the past resting as he caught up with his friend and played with his "niece" and "nephew" (Uncle Bucky never seemed menacing or threatening to them). Natasha also came around when she could, the Black Widow persona put off for the few moments she could do so without fear of reprisal. Sam Wilson split his time between his wife and his work, but the two men kept an appointed running time each week, which mostly ended with the Falcon cursing his old leader when the latter would inevitably circle laps on him.

Team members came and went, new recruits disembarking for the secondary base in London or acting as on-call for the upstate facility. Some were in retirement and far away (Hawkeye was firmly settled in with his family, and Scott took increasingly long trips back to California that made one think he would be leaving the organization permanently, too), some were still called upon for various things. Ultimately, the world had kept spinning, and Steve was on the fringes, but not in the thick of it, with his old teammates.

And he was not only still affiliated with the main team, but those who had likewise moved on.

The completion of the Avengers Academy (or commonly just "the Academy") was a chance for those who had, like him, been pushed to the limits of superhero work and did not wish to continue. However, also like him, many of those who wanted an out found it difficult to find employment elsewhere, with reputations and fears preceding them more often than not. At the Academy, along with the licensed teachers who had taken on the challenge of riding herd on Enhanced children, they could find safety and security as aides, assistants, and trainers. Bruce Banner was a prime example; the transition from Avenger to science teacher was not terribly jarring, as he had spent hours before college students before. However, within the first year—and after every sort of vetting that he could be put through was completed—he was the acting principal, administering to students and faculty alike. The mild-mannered man adapted fairly well to the change, reasoning that someone with his temperament could certainly do worse for himself. A couple of positions had rotating members, but he was overseeing it all to the best of his ability. The Academy was now his home, its rooms and knowledge his domain to share with others.

For himself, the former Star-Spangled Man With a Plan had found a niche of his own, his roots in drawing and art beckoning him back to the fold when the world was no longer under an alien threat.

The art room had become something of a second home to Steve. While he was still a couple years away from getting his degree, and then a Transitional B teaching certification, he was still allowed to host the hours at the school. Whenever one of the kids asked for his help, he would nudge them in the right direction, or demonstrate the technique they were attempting, but there was nothing formal or based on a lesson plan. Only a few more years (and hours put into workshops and actual classroom structures, which Bruce was helping him out with), and he could be certified.

For the moment, though, he was pleased with what he could do. The kids at the Academy were often lost, scared, either turned out of their homes or sent there by parents who had no clue how to deal with the enhanced abilities they possessed. Few though they were, they still needed care and attention that their families were unable—or unwilling, in some cases—to provide. At the Academy, they found shelter, courses to complete their education, and a few structured activities to keep them at least moderately safe. Three afternoons a week and every other Saturday, Steve kept open hours in the art room, easels and pottery wheels ready for any wishing to express themselves. The kids drifted in and out from 10 A.M. to closing at 3 P.M., some of them picking up pencils and paper, others drifting to brushes and watercolors, but all of them ready for some hours of artistic endeavor. That, and the occasional question or glance drifted his way. His proclivity to the vocation was met with puzzlement at times, and so they could not help but stare at him when he took his time with his own sketchbook and charcoal.

(And when his son and daughter came toddling in to see him, brought by their mother, that had caused even more gaping at the beginning, but the older kids were getting used to the little ones chasing each other around their father's legs.)

As it was, it was the end of the allotted time, with him hanging up some leftover pieces and paintbrushes being cleaned off by his newly-appointed helper. Abigail Boylen, blonde hair drawn up into a top-knot and her green eyes screwed up in concentration of her task, had just started her sophomore year at the Academy. Her story was not altogether different from some of the kids there, bits and pieces passed to him when she stayed after to clean off palettes and rinse rags. Her childhood had been pretty typical; her abilities had been latent since the worldwide exposure years ago. Within the last seven months, though, they presented. As it turned out, she had the ability to emit a gas that propelled her off the ground. Shaky attempts at flight drew attention, and her parents had no idea how to help her.

According to her, she was shipped off to the Academy as soon as the paperwork went through. Which she was happy for, because all she really wanted to do with the gas was fly, anyway, and there was bound to be someone there to help her.

Looking for something keep herself occupied in the meantime—despite not being particularly artistic—she had approached the captain a couple of weeks prior, wondering if she could just sit and watch the others at work. Soon enough, she set herself about the task of cleaning up, taking stock of the supplies, and grabbing tools for those who needed them. Steve was grateful for the help, and he was willing to be an ear for any of the kids who wished to be around him. It took her awhile, but she was slowly opening up.

Hanging up the last paper to fully dry, a buzzing sound reverberated through the air. The radio that played during the open art hours had been shut off, and Abby raised her head, quirking an eyebrow over her shoulder at him. Her phone was back in her dormitory, so it must have been his. Steve, however, seemed confused as well. Generally, his phone had the ringer turned all the way up when he was in the art room, in case Holly or someone else needed to get in touch with him. Suspicion, and dread of that suspicion, filtered through his mind as he crossed over to the teacher's desk. Bending, he snatched the satchel resting there; it was a birthday gift that currently housed his necessary drawing tools whenever he went to the Academy.

Reaching into his satchel, he felt his mouth go dry and his heart thump faster. Blood drained from his face as he withdrew the device he was looking for. The small and sleek black box had been in his possession for years, never once having been activated. However, the vibrating and the blinking red light were undeniable. The sinking of his heart was accompanied by a sharp twist in his gut, and the world slowed down in those moments. Deep breath in, deep breath out, another in, and then time snapped back to normal speed.

His hand shook as he kept staring at it, muttering, "Oh, no. No!"

The last word he crowed loudly, making his assistant jump across the room. Wisps of the gas she controlled misted around her in her shock, and Abby pivoted sharply to look at him.

"Captain Rogers, what's—" she started to ask, cutting herself off when she saw the distress wracking his person.

"Close and lock the room, Abby," he told her, in no uncertain terms. Tossing her the keys to do so, he darted to the door. There was no time to waste. "I have to go."

Dumbfounded at the whirlwind of movement that had been Steve, Abby dropped her gaze down to the keys she'd caught, an unwelcome feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. All she could do was sigh and do as Captain Rogers asked, wondering what in the world was going on.

The halls were devoid of students, most of those who resided at the Academy sticking to the dormitory halls on the west side or enjoying the beginnings of the autumn weather outside. This was fortunate, as Steve was barreling through them to get to the parking lot. Bursting through the side doors, he ran across the lawn to the open lot, slipping between the few vehicles to get to his motorcycle. His satchel was thrown into the mounted saddlebags, a single item retrieved before climbing. An old communicator, one that he only kept for extreme circumstances, was placed into his ear, the device activating just before he fired up the bike. Backing up, he immediately gunned it, tearing out of the lot at high speed and leaving the Academy in the dust. Barking to the device, he directed the accented voice to call the base immediately.

The call had barely been picked up before he was calling down the line, his stony voice overtaking the greeting.

"Buck, who's at the base right now?"

A bare chuckle came in from the other end, and the blond man gritted his teeth in annoyance. Though his friend didn't know it, he was definitely not in the mood for the inevitable sass that came his way.

"Hello to you, too," Bucky retorted, sarcasm thick in the words.

"Who's at the base?" Steve repeated, tone hardening further. The sharpness broke through to Bucky, his voice quirking in confusion and bearing an edge of its own when he replied.

"Me, Nat, and Scott are on call for today. The others are on mission. What's going on?"

"Holly's distress device has been activated," the captain crowed, pushing a little harder and speeding up the motorcycle a bit more. Swiftly, he weaved around a minivan in his path, leaving it in the dust as he went. "She and the kids are in danger. I may need backup."

A bare fraction of silence followed, but it spoke volumes. Eventually, the other man let out select curses in Russian.

"Jesus," he crowed, reverting to English after a few seconds. The engine of the motorcycle kicked up, and Steve bent into it, the wind whipping at his face and body. Bucky took in another breath, and then asked, "Where are they?"

"The mall outside Gloversville," the captain replied, recalling the plans Holly had made for herself and the kids. She had invited him to come along, but he'd declined, thinking she would be fine with the little ones without him (and it was his Saturday to host the art hours, anyway). Clearly, he was wrong. Zipping around a curve in the road, he tightened his grip on the handles, bemoaning his stupidity. He had been lulled into a false sense of security over the last couple of years, and now, it would potentially cost his family dearly. Self-hatred flowed through him, and he growled, "Shit, shit!"

Unbeknownst to him, Bucky was striding around on his end, blinking and rubbing his forehead. Steve truly was in distress, and it would not be a good time to tease him for his slip of the tongue. (Natasha had told him about the language incident from years ago, and had joined in the ribbing he got on occasion for it still. Now was definitely not the moment to bring it up again.)

The other man coughed and cut in, "We'll head out as soon as you get to the base."

Steve shook his head to thin air, too intent on his own travels. "I'm on my way out already. I'm not stopping. Meet me there."

"We'll do overhead pick-up," Bucky murmured, and before his friend could say anything, he continued, "It will be faster. We're coming, Steve."

His tone brooked no argument, and the blond man was not inclined to do so. A quinjet would be faster than his bike, and the sooner he could get there, the sooner he could ensure his family's safety. Grunting an affirmation, he relayed what road he was going down before he cut the call, concentrating on driving with unerring focus. Deep regret laced through him, for letting them go alone, and for not bringing his shield along with him. The supposition that he would not need it was, like other ideas that day, proven incorrect, and he mentally kicked himself for it as he drove. If he had to fight without it, he could certainly do so; he just despised the fact that he had forced himself unknowingly into that position.

The licking, nipping threads of fear wormed their way through him. It spiraled down to his stomach, lancing through his heart as it thrummed. Holly, Grant, Iris…they were in trouble, deep enough that Holly had thought it necessary to activate the emergency device he'd had made for her when he retired. The idea that they could be hurt, or worse, froze and burned him, and he felt increasingly sick as the imaginings overtook his mind.

A low roar rumbled overhead after several long minutes, the air changing and churning a little harder as it whipped by him. Having gotten past a stretch of forest, the road was now surrounded by a couple of wide fields, the space enough to a quinjet to maneuver into. It was roughly a mile down the road, hovering enough to let the back ramp down. Braking hard, Steve aimed directly for it, the last edges of speed gone as he rolled up into the aircraft. The ramp closed up behind him, and the quinjet began a gradual ascent once more. The typical middle console was recessed into the floor, allowing for his motorcycle to be parked. Kicking down the stand and turning it off, he could finally hear his own shaky breathing, and he struggled to get it under control.

The interior of the quinjet, sleek and dark, hardly registered with him. His attention was on those within, those who were able to come when he called.

It was a measure of their liking for him, and for his family, that those who were on call for world emergencies had gotten into that jet and picked him up. He would always be grateful for them doing so, even if his conscience nagged at him for doing so in the first place.

Bucky, as he suspected, would not stay behind. The man was standing up near the cockpit, in dark fatigues and his shield strapped to his back. A flicker of bleach-blonde hair peeked out as the pilot turned her head; Natasha was manning the helm, her ocean-colored gaze taking in his distress and her eyebrows rising significantly. Scott, too, was at one of the sideboard computers, jumping out of his seat the moment the craft had leveled out.

"The local stations are live," the one called Ant-Man reported. His normally cheerful demeanor was significantly sober, any humor missing as he tapped at the screen and called up a few videos. Playing them side by side and with the sound off, he pointed out, "Evidently, it was a mall-wide attack. Several were injured in the mayhem, a few people missing."

As one father to another, he shared a hard look with Steve, his own worry under the façade he was putting on. Scott knew the captain's family, and he knew all too well the emotions swirling inside his former commander at that moment.

"Any of them still on the scene?" Steve asked, bending to peer closer at the screen.

"Hard to tell," Natasha cut in, her own tone jagged as she shifted her hands around the controls. Shaking her head, she murmured, "According to our comm tap, the police have the mall on lockdown and called in SWAT for assistance."

"Probably aren't expecting us," Bucky remarked, severity lacing his form. Tapping his thumbs on his belt, he bit his lip, the only outward sign of his own anxiety. In spite of his horrid past and the major work he had to put into himself, and all the things he had done, he had been welcomed back into the fold by Steve and his wife. Their children were his surrogate niece and nephew; they were all his family now, and to have his family threatened made his blood boil.

Glancing at his best friend, he knew better than to ask what he was thinking or planning to do. Dissuading him would go over about as well as a lead balloon, and he wouldn't try.

After all, if it had been Natasha, he knew he would never let the matter lie until he knew for sure she was out harm's way.

If anything, he mused, the police would likely have called them there, anyway, given how fast and hard it all went down. Outwardly, they would lend Steve the legitimacy to go in with them. Never mind that their motives carried a personal element, he noted to himself. When he walked back into the cockpit and shared a look with Natasha, though, Bucky knew that she was thinking the same as he was.

True to the supposition, the quinjet flew in well before any motorized vehicle would have. Landing the aircraft expertly on far end of the eastern parking lot, Natasha inclined her chin to the cockpit window. Through the glass, they could all see the swarms of police officers, sawhorses and tape cordoning off sections of the lot and doors into the mall. The few bystanders left outside were supplemented by news crews and cameras, each of them shouting and begging to be heard by any authority figure.

The Avengers, and Steve, exited the aircraft (Scott having donned a sleeker version of his helmet to maintain his anonymity; he was one of the few team members still doing so, mostly for his daughter's safety) and started to cross to the nearest entrance. The device that had alerted him to the danger was in his palm, starting to vibrate a little more aggressively. It was designed to do so; whenever one was triggered, the other would keep the alerts going until the two were brought together. Once they touched, they would turn off, reverting to their dormant states until one was activated again. The alert vibrations would build until then, and would act as a guide for him to find his family.

One officer, a sergeant, noticed their approach and moved quickly to stand in front of the gap between the sawhorses. Even though they were the Avengers, he did not have the ability to grant them access.

"I'm sorry, you guys can't come through here," he began, nasally voice cutting through the air. Steve stiffened his posture, looking down at the shorter fellow, and let a sharp breath out through his nose. He stepped forward, but the sergeant raised a hand, his other palm cupping at the side of his belt. "You can't—"

"I can, and I will," the former commander of the Avengers stated, his calm tone belying the very real fear and anger bubbling beneath the surface. The icy fire in his blue eyes must have been evident, as the sergeant blinked up at him. Stubbornly, though, he shook his head and opened his mouth to reiterate his refusal.

"Step aside, Officer," the Black Widow commanded, stepping up and placing her hands on her hips. Dyed blonde strands wafted around her head, and her ire, tempered as it was, was brewing, too.

Bucky stepped up to Steve's left, spiking an eyebrow at the officer. "Before he makes you do it."

Faced with the authority of the current Captain America, and the unwavering righteousness of the former, the sergeant looked to his commanding officer standing nearby. The fellow nodded, motioning for him to step aside. The Avengers, sanctioned as they were by the United Nations, would not be deterred any longer. Besides, he reasoned as the four arrivals strode past the barriers, if things had gotten any worse, they would have been contacted, anyway.

Entering the mall, Bucky made his way over to the nearest SWAT team member, requesting to be put in touch with the commanding officer. Radio chatter went back and forth, and then the woman in charge came around. Raising her helmet shield, she narrowed her dark gaze on them, but nonetheless reported what had been discovered.

The attack had started and ended within a thirty-minute time frame, and while the majority of the attackers had escaped, they had several in custody for questioning. No deaths, but fourteen civilians had been injured, and those were the ones they had been able to see so far. They were proceeding to each locked store one by one, gaining entrance and seeing to those who had managed to get inside for safety. With the few Avengers who had showed up, she reckoned that the sweeps could be completed quickly. She darted a look to Steve, muttering about she'd thought he was out of the game.

When he tersely explained the reason for his presence, they all saw how her eyes had widened. Trained as she was to maintain a calm façade, even she understood the ramifications of having the wife of the former Captain America and his children in with those threatened. After being shown a picture of them (from Nat's pocketed phone, since Steve had left his in his bike's bags), she told them they hadn't been found yet, and would tell her team to keep an eye out for them.

The four branched off, each one taking stores as they went. Steve's path was erratic, weaving this way and that as he pounded on gates and told those inside that there were officers present and medical aid available to those who needed it. The twist in his gut increased with every group passing by, with every second ticking and his family still not appearing.

A couple of times, he crossed paths with his former teammates, the same question on their tongues each time and the same answer given when he asked his.

It was roughly forty-five minutes into his search when he felt the vibrating device ratchet up, the shaking making him halt. Glancing around, he saw that he was in one of the mall's wide corridors, just off an atrium with a hanging sculpture and a fountain. There wasn't much in the hall, besides a couple of stores, a bathroom entrance, and a single unmarked door. It was an area already swept through by the teams, but he couldn't stop himself from giving it a final check. Eyeing the unmarked door, he stepped towards it, the vibrating increasing as he went.

"Through here," he muttered under his breath. Trying the handle, it yielded, but the panels of the door itself were blocked from opening more than an inch or two. Frowning deeply, he started to ram his shoulder against the door, forcing it open enough so that he could squeeze through. Peering through the gap first, he blinked at the loaded cart on the other side, the mannequin parts and building scraps in it shifting slightly still. Reaching his arm through, he shoved the cart back, causing it to roll several feet down the hall. Stepping through, his gaze wandered to the floor, the plastic shopping bags dropped conspicuously to the side. Approaching them, he bent and gingerly opened them, his lips thinning as he noted the contents. Jeans marked for the size of a four-year-old, small t-shirts, and a glittery purple headband met his gaze, and he inhaled deeply.

The device in hand was still vibrating, and he knew he was on the right track.

Holding out the device before him, he moved it in an arch when he walked, his steps pattering harder with each turn taken. Eventually, he found himself in another service hall, the vibrating even higher than before. Like the others, it was bland and plain, the few doors the same models as the others…save for one missing its handle.

Coincidence? Perhaps, but Steve was willing to take a chance to check, especially as the device was going crazy in his hand. Striding to the door, he knocked at the broad surface of it, his breathing becoming ragged.

"Holly?" he called out. "Iris, Grant?"

Training his ears to listen, he heard shuffling inside, followed by tiny, muted gasps.

"...Daddy?" came a small, familiar voice, and he inhaled sharply.

"Grant!" he cried, profound relief pounding through him. "Son, I'm here! Stay put, I'm coming in."

Stepping back, he analyzed the door's structure, looking for the best way to get in. Left with few choices, Steve took a deep breath before rearing up and kicking at the door. Aiming for the connection where the door handle should have been, it only took a couple more kicks before the lock ripped away and the panel crashed open. Darting inside, he barely avoided running into a tall storage rack, his frantic gaze running over the room. It dropped to one of the lower shelves, and past the overturned box to the right.

There, tucked into the corner atop a pile of clothes, were his son and daughter. Grant was holding a sleeping Iris, one arm around her and his other hand holding the distress device. His matching blue eyes immediately filled with tears as he looked up at him, and the former commander could feel his heart breaking at the sight.

"Daddy!" he yelped, waking his napping sister. Iris, once roused, looked around and saw her father, squealing joyfully upon spotting him. Dropping to his knees, Steve opened his arms, the kids swiftly crawling off their improvised cushion and running to him.

"Thank God," he gasped, holding his children close. Kisses were pressed to their cheeks and hair, and he screwed his eyes shut against his own welling tears. "Thank God."

However, as the seconds passed, it was impossible to ignore the significant absence of Holly, and Steve felt the receding dread climb back up. As if sensing the shift, his son stepped back, looking at him directly.

"Mommy's gone," Grant cried, trying to talk and breathe at the same time. More tears fell as he struggled to tell his father what had happened, and he scrubbed hard at his face. "Mommy's gone, she told us to stay and be quiet 'til you got here. Said she had to stop the bad guys from getting us. Daddy, she's gone."

"Mama," Iris whispered, tears dripping down her cheeks before she buried her face against her daddy's shoulder. Grant did the same, collapsing against Steve and nestling into his shirt. He held both of them tightly, the lump in his throat thick as he started to rock his children gently. Inside, the ice in his heart and the churn in his gut spiked. The thought of his wife, the woman he loved and his children's mother, being taken fueled every bit of fire in his soul.

Distant shouts echoed, but he did not acknowledge them, instead keeping his focus on his children and trying to comfort them as he formulated a plan. He would get the kids out of there, touch base with the team and find out if they had found her yet. The evil, horrible voice at the back his mind that filled him with doubt was barely hushed, but he had to keep his fears at bay.

Rising up, he easily carried both of the children out of there, each of them clinging as if for dear life. He'd only managed to walk a few feet out of the storage room before he heard another shout – that time, it was behind him, and the voice of a friend.

"Steve!" Bucky said, something akin to relief breaking across his features when Steve bodily turned to face him. His gaze flicked to the little ones in his arms, and he let out a slow breath. "You found the kids."

The blond man nodded, his expression remaining grim.

"Holly wasn't with them," he said, the hollowness in him surfacing. His grip on children tightened a fraction, and he bent his head to press a kiss into his daughter's hair. Raising his chin, he attempted to clear his throat, and asked his compatriot, "Have you found her yet?"

The flinch was minuscule, almost nonexistent, but Steve saw it flicker through Bucky, and he went still, the dread compounding the leftover fear as his friend shook his head

"That's why I came to find you," he said. After he had been directed to search the service halls, word over the radio system was that Captain Rogers had already headed down that way. Doing his own searches, he had not found anything, save for a broken purse that he had recognized as Holly's. Collecting it, he had called out to Natasha, passing the bag off to her before looking for his friend. The news he had to impart was not what he thought it would be, but it would still devastate the man before him. Swallowing once, he relayed, "The sweep of the mall is done. Holly…she isn't anywhere in here."

Grant raised his head, looking from his daddy to his uncle, and started to cry again. He understood what was said; his mommy was really gone. He felt so scared and sad, he didn't know what else to do but tighten his grip in his father's shirt and start bawling again.

Steve closed his eyes, struggling to keep his wavering composure. His kids could not, absolutely could not, see him break down. He didn't want to scare them further, and he did not want their sorrows to drown them. His breath was ragged again, his chest heaving with each one.

It was almost like a precursor to one of his old asthma attacks, Bucky's weak memory reminded him, and it shook him to his core.

Stepping forward, Bucky promised, "We'll get her back."

He utterly meant it. He would do whatever it took to help his friend get his wife back. Holly, though not enhanced and not a hero, had become one of theirs. And he would never leave one of theirs behind. The team would be on board with it, at least a few of them would be, and that would be enough to work with.

A few more heavy gasps, and then Steve opened his eyes. A fiery blaze lit up the irises, and he inclined his head.

"Yes, _we_ will."

 **xXxXxXx**

All was darkness when Holly came out of unconsciousness. Blinking in an attempt to clear her vision, she felt her lashes brush against the cloth wound around her eyes. Trying to reach up with her right hand, she felt the catch of the bindings around her wrist, shackling it to the other. Both arms were behind her back, and when she twitched her legs, she felt catches around her ankles restricting her movement as well.

Hard breaths went in and out of her nose as her panic rose, a hard swallow coursing down her throat as she tried to keep calm. She had to focus; it would do her no good to succumb to the vile thoughts invading her mind.

Muted rumblings of an engine met her ears, the sway of her seat and the occasional bounce over bumps telling her that she was in a vehicle of some sort. Sluggishly, her brain was coming back to life, the events prior to falling coming back to her. Remembering the electric sharpness that had brought her down, she felt a hard pinch in her side, the residual pain not fading.

Disoriented, she shuffled sideways on the seat, struggling against the restraints on her wrists. Another bump and she was pushed up, falling forward so swiftly she barely had time to turn her head. Narrowly avoiding breaking her nose, she cried out sharply, grunting a few curses under her breath.

"Get used to it, bitch," a snide voice came from her left, the cruelty in it making a tremor run down her spine. Rough hands seized her, hauled her back and up into her seat with little issue despite her attempts to shake them off. Recalling the black-garbed attackers she'd squared off with in the hall, she gritted her teeth.

"HYDRA trash," she nearly growled, daring to name them for what they were.

A scoff came from her right, a sharp nudge dealt to her upper arm. When she flinched, she heard something that sounded distinctly like a sigh, but she couldn't have been sure.

Another voice, softer than the first, murmured, "Stolen gear doesn't mean we're all HYDRA, princess."

Her head whipped around, dizziness flooding through her from the movement. Trying to blink it away behind the blindfold (and not throw up), confusion flooded through her.

"What?" she asked, but no answer was forthcoming, the engine of the car and the crunch of the road all that greeted her ears – and her captors' breathing, not allowing her to fool herself into thinking she was truly left alone. Holly's mind was racing then, considering what she had been told.

' _Not HYDRA, not everyone,'_ she thought, puzzling over that tidbit. There was no reason for her to be told the truth, not by the scumbags who had abducted her, but HYDRA agents had a tendency to be all too proud of their organization. Letting out a long sigh, she tried to clear her throat, the dryness of it catching and making her cough. It was difficult to concentrate of deciphering the truth when her head was starting to throb and the pain in her side pinched.

' _Doesn't matter who they are. What matters is that they know who I am, and that's why they took me,'_ she pointed out internally, wrists twitching slightly as she took in another breath. _'Kidnapped, because I'm Steve's wife. Seems pretty straightforward. But…it's never this simple. Steve told me that himself. Natasha, too.'_

The vehicle made a sharp turn, though that time a hand caught her shoulder and held her in place.

' _So why me? Really, why me?'_

That thought circulated in her mind until the vehicle finally stopped. The _click_ and _chunk_ of a door opening met her ears, and she felt the hand from before encircling her bicep. Next came a snap, and she felt the tightness of the restraints around her ankles fall away (zip ties, she concluded them to be). Guided out of the vehicle, she was met by a rush of cooler air, goosebumps blooming on her arms and making her wish they would have put her sweatshirt on her before bundling her away. There was a rustle of leaves, and a wet, musty smell overpowering the smells of autumn. Several sharp tugs on her arms and a few stumbling steps had her walking forward. To what, she had no idea, and her heart hammered in fright.

The ground beneath her shoes shifted from the rockiness of gravel to the sharp flatness of concrete, and she was halted. Bangs on metal made her jump, a mean chuckle coming from behind her. Desperately wanting to locate the source, she turned her head left and right, still hindered by the blindfold.

The crackle of a radio rebounded in her ears, and she hushed her breathing, wondering what would be said next.

"Code?" a man's voice drawled out of a nearby speaker, ennui lacing the tone.

" _Anfang_ ," came the answer, the voice to her right sounding suspiciously garbled and nasal.

There was shuffling, and then a sharp intake of from the new man who had spoken through the speaker.

"Good Christ, what happened to you?" he asked. Holly bit the inside of her cheek, not quite able to suppress the bitter giggle. So she could count her attacker from the mall hallway as one of those who had come with, and there must have been a camera so the speaker guy could see it. It was confirmed was a sharp growl and a shove against her upper back. The strong grip around her arms lurched, but did not let her fall.

"Broken nose," reported the first fellow who had spoken to her in the vehicle. Fingers squeezed painfully around her left bicep as he continued, "Captain's bitch has more fight in her than we were told."

"Huh. Noted." Loud clunks echoed, and metallic sliding followed. "Enter."

"Move," came the garbled voice again, shoving her forward. All that accomplished was for the fellows holding onto her to swear under their breath as they held her back from falling. Her stumbling gait even out as she walked, their booted steps and her squeaking sneakers reverberating around them as they went. Distant calls and shouts could be heard, damp heat enveloping them all as they walked. Holly's stomach churned, and she had to bite back the urge to vomit as she was forced to keep walking, everything coursing through her and compounding with the fear.

They went up a flight of stairs, down another long stretch of flatness, and then climbed up another set of steps before pivoting to the right. The length of the hall ended abruptly, the whir and crunch of another door opening then. The ties around her wrists were cut, and before she could react to that, the blindfold was whisked off. The brightness of the world flood her vision and she cringed, hands flying up to cover her eyes. Before she could adjust, she was jerked to the left.

"Here," one of her captors grunted, shoving her forward. On instinct, her hands flew out, pain shooting through her palms and knees as she collided with the floor.

"Fuck!" she cried, groaning as she shifted onto her backside. Rubbing her sore wrists and wincing at the pain blooming from her knees, she missed her captors' departure. The click and clank of the heavy lock on the door broke through, and she inhaled deeply. Slowly, carefully, she opened her eyes, allowing them to adjust by degrees. The first sight she was greeted with was the heavy metal door keeping her in. It was solid, thick, and the glass of the small window was too high up, even if she could break through it. She was well and truly trapped.

It took her a few minutes before she fully sat up. Her heart pounded as she took in her surroundings. Rather than the concrete and sunless box she was imagining on the way, it surprised her to see that the floors were white tile. The walls were a light brown, with no windows. Instead, long lights lined around the top, likely to simulate daylight for whoever would be imprisoned there. In one corner, an open cubicle was built, showing the tiniest toilet, sink, and shower set-up that could be done in the space. In the other, a metal bedframe was bolted to the floor, the thin mattress capped with faded sheets. There was a pillow as well, something she had not expected. A single, polished wooden cube stood along the wall by the doorframe, likely where her captors would place any food she would receive.

Holly's survey was complete in under a minute, and she blew out a soft sigh. More than she had thought she would get, but less than she had in freedom. Gingerly, she crawled across the floor to the bed, pulling herself onto it. The springs creaked and groaned under her weight, but she ignored it. Laying on her side and facing the wall, she wrapped her arms around her middle. Closing her eyes, she replayed the events of the last few hours in her mind, letting the reality of the situation sink in.

She had been hunted down, she had been trapped, she had fought back, and she had been taken to God knew where and by God knew who. If they weren't all HYDRA, then who the hell else was involved? And why take her, of all people?

Even if she was Steve's wife, she wasn't special or enhanced in any way. If anything, abducting her would put the abductees at a loss, since it would guarantee the Avengers would be on their asses for a while, at least. If for no other reason, they wore identifiable gear of a known enemy to the organization. Any remaining cells would be hunted down with alacrity, she knew that much.

The state of the cell showed Holly that, at minimum, they wanted to keep her there and in comfort for a long time. Why waste resources on somebody who would be gone within a matter of days or weeks? They must have been well-hidden, then.

The thought made fear climb up her throat, her stomach churning within the knots it had tied itself into. Unable to help herself, unable to hold back any longer, she started to cry. For several long minutes, she just let out her sorrows. Knowing that this could have happened before, knowing that this was the risk she had been running since even meeting her husband, did not stop her from feeling so trapped and scared.

She wasn't some brave action heroine from a book or a movie. She was a real person, and she was terrified. Terrified for herself, for her children, even for Steve; beneath all the righteous fury she knew what he would be feeling. He likely would be scared for her, and she hated thinking that he, or either of her children, would feel that same horror.

Poor Grant and Iris. Iris might be able to forget it, a little, but Grant was old enough, and was showing that he had inherited his dad's excellent memory. The boy had been able to recall the letters and numbers he had learned so well; how would he be able to forget his mother leaving him and his sister to be found by their dad?

If he found them, that was.

Fingers trailed up, twitching the chain around her neck still. Tugging it out, she swiped her thumb over the dog tags at the end of it. It had been years since Steve had given her his old dog tags from the war, but she still wore them often, alternating with those and a pendant holding the birthstones of her family. Reading his name through the blur of tears, she tried to blink away the water, tried to find her courage and be brave.

Pressing the tags to her lips, Holly took in a shaky breath.

"I know you have them," she whispered, not allowing herself to think otherwise. She'd hidden the kids well, locked them in for their safety. They had the tracking device; Steve would have found them first, would bring them home. Small solace it was, but she took it. "I know you're all safe."

Her children were safe with her husband. They had to be.

Otherwise, she didn't know how she would be able to face whatever would be coming at her next.

The tears continued to drip, shuddering gasps evening out as she fell into an uneasy sleep, the edges of the world and her prison fading for the time being.

* * *

 **A/N:** ...Oh, yeah. Steve's pissed. This will not end well...

How about that? An update in a couple of weeks...the shock, lol. Either way, I hoped you enjoyed.

If any of you know who Abby is, you get comic internet points. :) And _Anfang_ is the German word for "beginning."

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!


	3. Chapter 3

The flight back to the base was nearly silent, save for the whirs and chirps of the panels in the cockpit and the muted whimpers of his children as Steve held them close. Swallowing hard every now and again, he would reassure them that he was there, that things would turn out okay, the burn of his friends' gaze sliding over him as he murmured softly. The pounding in his heart had twisted, turning to grief and anger as he rocked his son and daughter.

Before leaving the mall, the security had forwarded the few tapes they had of the incident to the Avengers as well as the SWAT teams and police. Many of the terminals containing the surveillance footage had been wiped clean, but it had seemed that one was salvageable. Ignoring the crowds swarming outside, ignoring the officers who were attempting to divert them over to the ambulances for examination, Steve had walked straight past them into the quinjet, his former teammates collecting all and following after him. Even as he stroked Iris' hair, even as he whispered to Grant to assure him that they would be going home, he listened as the others pulled up the footage. He could hear Natasha muttering under her breath, the Russian mixing with English a giveaway for her own feelings on the matter. Scott's face had turned to utter stone, his typical jovial nature drained away as he watched the wife of his friend being spirited limply out a back door, the unmarked van bearing her away not even having a license plate. It fell upon the new Captain America to spread the word to the remaining team members, Bucky's voice even and low in deference to the frightened children on board.

All the while, the former Captain America sat, cradling his boy and girl, mind churning along with his heart.

Upon arriving at the base once more, it was easy to tell the news had already spread. Agents were loitering on the landing pad on the roof, along the ground, the crackles of radios spitting as he passed them grinding on his frayed nerves. Kay Szymik-Wilson, Sam's wife and an agent in her own right, was let up to the landing pad, Maria Hill hot on her heels. Both had been apprised of the situation, for separate reasons, and as the Inhuman SHIELD agent was close friends with the abducted woman in question, she was ready to do what was needed to aid the quest, even if it was to help with the kids, to start with. Quietly, Kay told him that the old apartment space that had been his and Holly's years prior was let out, and she would help him get the kids situated there. Steve followed them down, confirming quietly that he would meet back up with Bucky and the others later. Maria stayed behind with the team, her bright gaze assessing all as her mouth creased in a deep frown.

The old, familiar wash of urgency and need to take action brewed below the surface, but until his children were cared for, they had to be shoved down, pushed aside. His own fear, and rage, bubbled along with it, and he tempered it as best he could as he got Iris and Grant situated with some dinner, that Auntie Kay would help them out. Iris, young as she was, was able to get along decently enough, fobbed off with assurances that Mommy would come back later. Grant, however, with the same blue assessing gaze as Steve had, could only nod, nodding for his little sister to eat before he would touch anything himself. And only after they had eaten, would Steve even think about himself. Kay, dark eyes creasing in concern and blue hair swinging as she brushed off his initial rejection. Using her own extreme strength, she pried open his fist, slapping a granola bar in it with alacrity before heading over to Iris, saying that she would get her some more juice from the downstairs kitchens. Thoughts burned and churned in his head, considering every angle as he ripped open the bar and ate it mechanically. As he examined, analyzed, he felt himself getting lost in the mire, the turn of the clock ignored as things went on.

Eventually, Bucky sent word for him to meet up in one of the conference rooms. After confirming with Kay that she would continue to stay with the kids, he gave them both hugs and kisses, promises to return following their begging for him to stay. It took a long while, and some treats and more assurances that he would be back, before either Iris or Grant would let him go, but he did make his way to the designated room.

As promised, the members of the team not present were forwarded the news about Holly's kidnapping and the attempted abduction of the Rogers children, but as they were presently mid-mission still (Sam and the others were unable to get back until the following morning, at the earliest) they could do no more than keep their eyes and ears peeled for any scrap of information that would come their way. Upon further examination of the tapes, it had appeared that some of the attackers had HYDRA insignia (when the video stills were highly magnified, of course). However, given that not all were bearing it, and that it was being borne brazenly, it seemed to be too obvious a conclusion to draw. When Natasha theorized that it was likely a red herring to throw people off the scent, Steve felt his blood boil harder. Bad enough to learn that HYDRA could potentially still be on the villain market, as it were, but to have others use them as a front, or a bluff? Did these people have any understanding of history, of the depths the people who bore that badge would stoop?

Or were they all too aware, and so used that to their advantage?

Still, it remained that the brief footage of Holly being hauled away showed little else. Checking in with traffic reports and police reports, no ATLs came back upon the vehicle that had spirited her away. Indeed, it appeared to have vanished all together. Leads could still be followed, though they would grow colder the longer they waited.

And Steve finally, finally, gave voice to what he wanted to do.

Which was exactly when everything stalled. Bucky, arms crossed and chin raised, was the one daring to make eye contact with his oldest friend, spiking an eyebrow and showing his discomfort on his face.

"Steve, you can't," he told the blond man, chest puffing up a little as he did so. Steve spiked an eyebrow at him, and snorted.

"Try and stop me."

Bucky's eyes narrowed, and his jaw stiffened briefly. "You can't use your captain's voice and will me into compliance. It don't work like that anymore, punk."

"You cannot exclude me from being part of this," the ex-superhero shot back, unwilling to back down. He had already conceded so much time, he refused to wait around any longer. He refused to be pulled away from what needed to be done. "I'm already involved; they went after my wife, and were looking for my kids, too!"

"All the more reason it would be better for us to take the lead, and not you."

Steve scoffed aloud at that. "Take the lead, I don't give a damn about being the lead. What I care about is being able to do something about it."

At that point, Scott, out of his uniform and back in street clothes, shot up from his seat at the single table in the room, striding up and waving his arms between the two men. Getting the ex-commander's attention, he swallowed and shook his head.

"You know this is a bad idea," he stated. Scott Lang knew bad ideas; hell, he'd had so many pop into his head in his lifetime it wasn't even funny, but he couldn't let Steve get stuck on the idea that he had to endanger himself as well.

Blond brows furrowed, and the captain muttered, "You honestly think I give a single shit whether or not it is?"

Blinking, the black-haired man stepped back, rubbing at his temples.

"Obviously you don't, but the issue is that having you being in the thick of it could be a mistake."

"He's right," the new Captain America agreed, backing up his teammate. He was not about to let that point settle, and so continued, "This could be a major trap, or worse, to try and drag you out of retirement and put yourself in danger."

Steve met his gaze steadily. "I don't doubt that's part of it."

The lack of surprised in his voice caught the collective attention of the room. Natasha, having hitherto been silent (letting the testosterone of the three men bleed out f their systems) looked at him squarely.

"You think there's more to it than that," she said, not voicing it as a question. It was a suspicion in the back of her mind. It seemed...too convenient to be a mere kidnapping, and the little voice in the back of head head would not let the thought die. Steve nodded, starting to pace around the room.

"They took Holly. But…" he paused, his steps halting as he ground out the words, "whoever it was, waited years to do so. I know there were a lot of really good opportunities for any enemy to try before now."

It was truth, though he despised thinking of their lives together in that regard. Over the last several years he and Holly had been together, many windows had been left wide open in spite of any planning or forethought given. There was only so much that could be done, and if the wrong people had the right amount of patience and observation, they could have taken their shot.

"Right," Natasha confirmed aloud for him. Leaning back against a wall, she recalled, "When you guys were dating, I mean, she was on her own a lot, with no security system."

"That's not true," the agitated man countered, resuming his pacing. Hands on hips, Steve let out an exasperated sigh. "She had JARVIS installed in the apartment, then."

It was a fair point, and true, so Natasha let it slide. Tony had done so for the couple, wanting the young woman to feel at least marginally safe as she was involved with the world's First Avenger. The stalwart defense remained in their home to that date, though the UI was replaced with one called JJ. Clearing his throat, Bucky passed a hand through his hair.

"And I…I was watching out for her, too. In between…things," he iterated. A memory flashed over his brain, and he smirked to himself. "After she got her licks in."

Remembering the incident—Bucky had broken into Holly's apartment, wanting information about his past and present from Steve, and she had retaliated by hitting him with a softball bat, twice, in the confusion—Steve barely cracked his own smile. His wife had her moments, her incorrigible inner strength carrying her through difficult times. He could only pray she held onto that. The smile faded, and he looked down at his boots.

The four people in the room grew quiet, their own thoughts taking over the silence. It did no good to point out the moments wherein Holly had been open to being taken, or worse, by any enemies. There were enough, but it had never come to fruition. Not until then. Turning away, the current leader of the Avengers clicked his tongue.

"They waited until it was likely she would be alone, with the kids, where the chances of getting away with it would be high," he murmured, daring to glance over his shoulder at Steve. Forcing himself to keep going, he gave voice to another thought that had bothered him. "Especially since it had to be a right place, right time situation to get her out, and maybe the kids, too."

That sunk in, and the flare of repressed anger fired up Steve's irises. The tension in the room thickened then, as the words hit home for them all.

"So there's a fox in the hen house, too," Natasha observed softly, narrowing her gaze on the middle distance. "Good to know."

"But why wait until now?" Scott wondered, biting his lip briefly before continuing. "Like you said, plenty of opportunities to do so have been around. There has to be a significant reason."

"I certainly want to know what it is," Steve growled. Looking at each of them in turn, the hardness of his expression softened, his hands spreading in supplication. "Look, you can all stand there and tell me to stay put, stay out of it. Let you all handle it, trust you to handle it. This isn't a matter of trust; I trust all of you." The hardness returned, and he scowled briefly before going on, "What I don't trust is them. What I don't trust are the unknowns, and I am not going to let the unknowns stop me from tearing the damn world apart to find Holly, and bring her home. I'm not going to be stopped by any of you, either."

"And what about the kids?" Lang interjected before either Bucky or Natasha could respond, his own heat rising then. The ire of a fellow father blared out at Steve then, experience and his own sorrows weighing down upon the brunet man. The understanding, the heartache...he knew, all too well, what Steve was feeling, and thinking. But the priorities needed to be reiterated. Getting up and circling the table, he stared at the bigger man, his tone gentling as he murmured, "I get it, man. Believe me, I do. But they need you, Steve."

The blond man had the grace to flick his gaze away in chagrin, the barest nod given. Stiffening his spine, he took a few calming breaths before meeting the pairs of eyes watching him...pitying him. Pity would not do any good, for himself, for the kids, or for Holly.

"I know they do. That's why I want to get their mother back." The well of feelings surged, and he struggled to keep himself collected. The strain in his voice, though, was not banished as he quietly asked, "They already know she's been taken; how can I tell them that I won't be doing something to get her back? How could I look my son in the eyes, or my daughter?"

Silence descended, the opposing three glancing at one another as their former leader, teammate, and good friend stood before them, awaiting their verdict. Scott's lips thinned, and he shrugged. Natasha and Bucky shared another long look, the woman barely inclining her head before the brunet man turned to face Steve again. A dry, wry grin tugged at the corner of his lips, though the humor did not reach his eyes.

"…To be fair, Steve, we had to at least try to stop you."

The relief that dared to bloom in Steve's chest fizzled as soon as the knocks rebounded on the open door frame. Turning, he spied Maria Hill, the brunette director of the Avengers base, having just arrived mere moments before. Her lips were stretched thin, and she took in a deep breath.

"Maria…" he started, about to head off her objections. As the Avengers were endorsed by the United Nations, it took more than one missing woman to demand their help, and he expected her to say as much, regardless of personal bonds to the missing person in question. He was cut off by her lifting palm, the tiredness in her eyes giving way to her stalwart stance.

"Steve, no matter what the bureaucrats say, we're behind you with this. Holly's one of our own, too. We don't leave one of our own behind," she affirmed, absolute honesty in her voice. Granted, she knew that the budget for the Avengers was not to be spent in such a way, but after all those years, after knowing the woman in question and knowing the impact she'd made, and the impact her husband would make if he went on his own to find her, she couldn't be bothered to stop him. Him, or the team.

Relief was allowed to flow then, and Steve's shoulders visibly relaxed.

"Thank you," he murmured, humbled and grateful for the aid being granted to his family. Maria dipped her chin, acceptance on her features as she tilted her head back towards the hall behind her.

"Get back to your kids," she said, not so much an order as a request. "We'll call you when there's any developments."

Inclining his head, Steve glanced around the room to his friends once more, murmuring that he would be back later, responses in the affirmative following him as he went. Fetching the temporary clearance badge he had been given earlier from his pocket, he strode the elevators at the far end, sliding it over the monitor and pressing the button for the private Avengers floor. A rush of memory, of when Holly and he had first moved upstate, surfaced, her smile and the light in her eyes dancing as she followed him through all the security points, her curious gaze taking it all in. Sharpness cut into his chest, and he closed his eyes for the last few moments before the elevator stopped. Stepping off and getting through the last couple of checkpoints, he found himself picking up his steps as he made his way to the old apartment.

At the door panel, he slid it through, the door unlocking and letting him in. At the sound of metal clicking and whirring, Kay had gotten up, striding over to him as he came inside. The dark circles under her eyes were more prominent, and he had no doubt that his had grown, too.

Flicking his gaze over her head, he asked in a soft voice, "How were they?"

"They behaved. Still really quiet," Kay confessed, brushing the blue strands of her hair out of her eyes. Patting his arm, she prepared to leave him, then, knowing he would need to be with his children. "Good luck, Captain."

Before she got far, he held up a hand, guilt and frustration with himself creeping in as he realized that he had forgotten a few things in his haze.

"Could you...go to the house, and pick up a few things for them. And Bonnie?" he inquired, wondering if the favor would be too much for one night. He felt terrible, having not been home for over twelve hours and not having let Bonnie, the corgi, out or fed her beyond the bowls of water and food left behind for her. The woman before him clicked her tongue, shaking her head.

"Poor dog, probably ready to bounce off the walls looking for all of you. I'll go take care of her, and bring her here in the morning."

Steve nodded, patting Kay's shoulder before she slipped. There was so much that had been done, so much more to do...and it would all start tomorrow. But at that moment, he had to be concerned with the night. Breathing deeply, he squared his shoulders and went into the apartment, the soft tread of Kay's footsteps muted by the panels as she left. Walking down the small hallway, he came upon the living room, both his children there. Iris was asleep on one of the couch cushions on the floor, a warm set of footie pajamas encompassing her. Noting that they had come from a stash that was kept in Uncle Bucky and Auntie Nat's apartment, he let out another slow breath.

Upon the remaining couch cushions sat Grant, his eyes blankly staring ahead at the television screen. An old cartoon was on, the volume low in deference to the sleeping toddler, but the young boy wasn't really watching it. Instead, he turned his head as soon as his father walked into the room, sniffing hard before he slid off the sofa and pattered over to Steve.

The ache in Steve's chest spiked again as he knelt to enfold his son into a hug.

"Hey, buddy," he greeted the boy softly, ruffling his hair before lifting him up. Taking a seat on the couch with his son sitting on his lap, he nodded down to small girl lost in dreamland. "You're both supposed to be in bed."

Granted, he knew there wasn't much there for their beds, given that the apartment had been designed with single adults (or a married couple with no children at the time) in mind, but as it was a designated shelter in case things went badly, a couple of kiddie beds had been installed in the master bedroom. For his part, if he did even sleep that night, Steve was planning on the couch itself, unable to sleep in the master bed without his wife there. It would do, for a few nights. He couldn't stomach going back to the family home, not yet...not yet.

The small child shrugged, tugging at his own borrowed pajama sleeves. "Rissy started crying, and I wasn't sleepy, anyway. Auntie Kay said we could."

"She did, huh?" Steve remarked, a thread of humor appearing in his voice. Typically, what an aunt or uncle said could not trump what the parent stated, but with all that had happened, Steve had no energy to fight it. "Well, I suppose it's okay. Just this once."

The young boy relaxed then, relieved that he wouldn't be in trouble for not doing what his mommy or daddy would like him to do. At once, he screwed his eyes shut, the reason why he was still awake after trying to go to bed surfacing and frightening him once more.

"Didn't wanna sleep anymore," Grant insisted, burrowing his face against his dad's shoulder and muffling his voice. "My dreams were scary. I had a bad one."

Another crack splintered, and Steve had to clear his throat a few times before speaking again.

"A nightmare, huh? I understand; I get those a lot, too."

Grant looked up at him then, tears creating pools along his blue irises, and he sniffed hard.

"Mommy said that nightmares can't hurt you. But they hurt Mommy," he told his dad, a couple droplets falling. Shutting them, he quietly sobbed, "I didn't want them to hurt Mommy."

"Mine do that sometimes, too. But…your mom is right, buddy. Dreams can't hurt you. It might feel like they can, but they can't."

For a long time, the two sat, Grant crying into his father's shirt and breaking two hearts all over again. Iris slumbered on, unaware of her older brother's sorrow, and of her father's as well. Gripping Grant tightly, Steve let him cry, saying nothing that he hadn't already said before. He crooned softly, his hums and gentle rubbing of the boy's back soothing the young one enough to make the tears stop. Sitting from that point in silence, the rhythmic breathing in Steve's chest and the low volume of the cartoons eased the child further. The heavy pull of his eyelids returned, and he could no longer fight it.

"…You're gonna find Mommy, right, Daddy?" he mumbled, head resting on Steve's shoulders.

The older man inhaled sharply, raising his chin and setting his gaze on a far point.

"Yes, I am." There was no question, in Steve's mind. He would find Holly, bring her home to their children. No matter what anyone said or thought.

"Good," the little guy breathed, the last word of the evening slipping out as he fell, finally, into peaceful sleep.

 **xXxXxXx**

With the lack of any time-telling device, Holly was uncertain just how long she had been left on her own. The restless sleep she had gotten made her feel sluggish upon waking, compacting with the fear and nausea crawling up her throat. On and off she would doze, waking the dimmed lighting in her prison and understanding that her nightmare was no mere dream. The limp sweatshirt around her waist—which had survived the mall attack and her ignoble kidnapping—was donned at one point, the sleeves proceeding past her fingertips and causing a fresh wave of sorrow to rise briefly. It was one of Steve's, which she had taken in lieu of a jacket, knowing it would be thick enough and big enough to act as such for her.

Her mind would alternately race and go blank, the bleakness of the situation settling upon her as the seconds ticked by without marking. Thoughts of her children, her husband, her home and the safety she had enjoyed mere hours ago drifted in and out, among other things, summoning the few tears left in her. Sleep was her only comfort, and she sought it viciously with each move of the clock.

After waking yet again and the churn of her stomach biting her, Holly watched the lights get a bit brighter again. The clicks and shifts of the locks on the door made the fear spike up again, and, combined with the illness she had been feeling already, made her beeline for the small bathroom set up. Hot, sour bile coursed up her throat as she fell to her knees in front of the toilet, casting up the spew into the bowl as the hinges of the door creaked. The sourness coated her mouth, burned her nose, and her eyes watered profusely as another round came up again.

The heavy door opened, and a soft curse was uttered as it was shut. The clink of something being placed on the wooden block stand by the door was heard, and Holly sniffed loudly, alerting the guard to her present position. No sense in getting shouted out for not being in plain sight...again. (Or they had possibly realized that there was only one place she could be besides the main room, and would leave her be from then on. She would take either, at this rate.) Rinsing out her mouth and splashing water on her face, she drew in a few deep breaths before exiting the small bathroom. To her lack of surprise, the guard was still standing there, back against the door and arms crossed over his chest. On and off during the unmarked time of her captivity, she had supervision for meals, and she supposed it was about that time again. It was confirmed when the guard, a stocky fellow with a buzz cut and mud-colored eyes, motioned to the tray on the stand.

"Here, eat," he grunted. When she only eyed the tray dubiously, he visibly rolled his eyes at her. Striding over, he picked up each individual item of food, taking bites of it all to show her nothing was tampered with. After a sip of the drink, he set the cup down with alacrity and gestured at her again. "Fine. See?"

"I'm not stupid," Holly ground out, her throat hoarse and her eyes narrowed. The fellow before her snorted, shaking his head at her.

"Clearly," he shot back, snorting before crossing his arms. His gaze focused on her again, and he muttered. "Not that it matters."

The brunette blinked, unable to form any other rebuttal. Cautiously, she moved towards the tray. Peering at the contents, she noted that it was all thing that could be eaten without utensils. No tools to defend herself (or, if she was given immense inspiration, open her locked door from the inside). Toast, cut fruit, orange juice, and a warmed breakfast burrito that looked like it was fresh from the gas station. Pieces were torn out of the toast and burrito, and she had watched him swallow down a couple pieces of fruit, too. Her stomach growled over the churn, and despite having just thrown up, she was starting to feel the gnaw of hunger again. Normally, she would take it as a sign of being morning, and the third one, at that (she had been given similar foodstuffs like that in rotation), but she didn't trust her captors to serve her as such without perhaps trying to mess with her mind. Her brain, foggy from sleep and fear, managed to push through the thought that she was being taken care of, despite being a prisoner. Reaching a shaky hand towards a chunk of strawberry, she couldn't help but wonder why that was.

While Steve had told her a little of the travesties he had seen during the war, and his own bouts in being held prisoner, too, it was Natasha who had really opened her eyes regarding the danger and horrors that could be had. Torture, seep deprivation, experimentation...the list ran through the young woman's mind on and off in the quiet moments. So far, however, she had not been touched, and now she was being fed decently. What was going on?

Eating little by little, she managed to put away the fruit and the toast under the gaze of the guard, sipping at the orange juice. The smell of the burrito made her throat constrict, though, and she could not bring herself to eat it. Carefully, she pushed it away, a signal to her guard to stand up straight and approach.

"…Eaten?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the untouched burrito. At her nod, and his examination of the finished contents, he inclined his head before picking up the tray. "Good."

Balancing the tray on one arm, he raised his free hand and slapped against the door, barking at the guard on the outside to open up. Briefly, Holly entertained a fantasy of grabbing the tray and smashing it over his head, making her escape that way, but she squashed it immediately.

In all likelihood, she'd run right into the path of a firing gun, and what good what that do her, or her family?

She had to give Steve time, or the others. As she had stated earlier, she was not stupid. She knew her husband would do whatever he could to find her, and if the team was aware, at least a few of them would help him. She had to wait. Watch, and wait.

And, if watching availed her anything, maybe later, she would find a way herself. But not yet. It was too soon. Dully, she began to plod back over to the bed, ignoring the mutterings of the guards at the door. Just as she was about to lay down again, the breakfast guard came back inside, striding over to her and roughly grabbing her arm. Before she could say anything, he pulled sharply, forcing her to start walking.

"Come on," he growled, automatically causing her fight or flight instinct to kick in. Immediately, she dug in her heels, attempting to go dead weight to stop him from dragging her out to God knew where.

"No," she squeaked, resisting his tugging for several more seconds before he huffed in aggravation. Not willing to tolerate her resistance any longer, he swooped fast, hauling her up and stringing her across his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Taken aback by the swift movement, Holly started to panic, kicking and slapping where she could.

"Fucker!" she cried, making little headway with the guard. Any hits she managed to land were ignored, though she did catch him gritting his teeth visibly a few times. He was joined by three other guards, all encumbered in black. One got close, gripping her wrists, and the other two got her ankles, immobilizing her completely. Shaking breaths filled her chest, the press of her stomach agitating as she was brought away from the cell.

The halls twisted and turned, and as she was unable to get out of the holds she was in, Holly focused on her surroundings. The walls were like the walls inside of an office building, bland and the color of oatmeal. The metal clomps that echoed up from the guards' steps, though, made it seem more like a warehouse, particularly as they passed a windowed area looking upon a vast interior floor below. A crate speckled the floor here and there, but there was nothing else to break up the space. And there were no windows showing the outside.

So, she still didn't know where she was, but she could at least reflect on the data gathered. Provided that wherever she was being brought to, she would survive to leave it.

The quakes in her stomach and soul did not lessen as the guards pivoted and entered another room. There was very little to the room, save for an examination table and a small miniature refrigerator. An old, worn desk was pushed against a wall, with a few plastic tackle boxes and notebooks propped atop it. The computer nearby was a brand new one, though, which was strange in the midst of all the slapdash nature of the rest of the room, the bolted sink new and clean as well on the wall. Standing beside the table was an older gentleman, likely just into his forties, with a touch of gray at his temples, dull brown capping his head. Black, oblong glasses perched upon his nose, a doctor's coat settled over a flannel shirt and dark slacks.

It was the gentle smile he gave her that truly jarred, and she was equally as stunned from that as she was when she placed roughly upon the table.

A final guard came forward from his post just inside the door, four men now holding down her limbs. Unable to move, she stared wide-eyed at the fellow in the lab coat, shaking as he strode over to one of the tackle boxes. A packaged syringe and gloves were removed before he went to the sink preemptively washing his hands. Gloves were snapped on after, some rubbing alcohol also removed and a wad of cotton swabs brought over. A few swipes on her arm with the alcohol, and the packaging from the syringe was removed.

Noting her wide-eyed fear, the would-be doctor paused in his work, trying to gentle his smile further.

"This will be over soon enough. Just relax," he murmured, and Holly squeezed her eyes shut, terrified of what he could do to her.

"No, no, no…" she whispered, feeling the tears prick at her eyelids. A slight sting it into her arm, but she cut off her own yelp as the pain was so minimal.

"There," the older fellow said. "Pinch and pull, and it's done."

The pulling sensation was over at that moment, and she opened her eyes in time for him to bid her to keep a fresh cotton swab pressed onto the puncture. One of the guards let go of her arm, and she did as the doctor said. Dark eyes watched as the man looked at the sample of blood drawn from her, moving to the other tackle box to begin capping it off for storage.

"What the hell?" she groaned, unable to really believe what she was seeing. She was brought in...for a blood draw?

The doctor glanced back over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth curling. "Not so bad, right?"

"Don't, doctor," one of the guards said, his hushed tone compelling the other man to turn back to the task at hand. Holly, not satisfied in the least, tried to struggle again, but found herself hindered with stemming the wound dealt to her.

"Why? Why did you…why did…why?" she queried, unable to form a full question other than that. Blinking, she witnessed the stiffening of the doctor's shoulders. With the vial capped, he put it in a container in the mini-fridge, sighing deeply. Once it was closed, he went back to the opened boxes, grabbed up a bandage and came to her again. Mildly, he bade her to let him bandage down the cotton, and he did so.

"Tests, miss," he told her, mystifying her further. "Just some tests to be performed."

Finished with his task, he nodded at the guards, stepping back after giving her shoulder a slight squeeze.

"Bring her back later."

The breakfast guard stared at him curiously. "How much later?"

The doctor shrugged, like it didn't matter much to him."Processing needs to happen, not that it's something at your pay-grade to know. Bring her back later."

At once the hands holding her down were pushing her onto her feet, making her march away.

"Wait!" she crowed, trying to turn and look at the doctor, a shove on her shoulder forcing her forward. Shaking and idly rubbing at the new bandage on her arm, she couldn't stop wondering what the hell was going on?

The doctor watched her being taken away, a grimace decorating his features. He had wanted to do more to reassure the young woman brought to him, but he had been stopped by the guards. The very same captors who had taken him. It was not safe to say anything, for either himself or for her. The lights of the makeshift office began to dim. Registering the change, he braced himself as he entered. He knew what the shadiness meant: he was not alone. Waiting, he confirmed this to be truth, and footsteps entered the room, stopping several feet away in the darkness

"It's done, then. How long will it take to examine?" barked a voice from the shadows. Exhausted by the charade, but unwilling to comment, the doctor merely accepted the question and canted his head. He could not act against the command to retrieve and examine the young woman's blood, to note what was found, though the curiosity inside was killing him. He knew he was meant to find something, but without the proper tools, he wouldn't know what for long.

"With no centrifuge and little other equipment, you will have to pull some strings to outsource. Or bring it here to me. A couple days, three at most."

"Fine. What else do you need?" the gruff voice growled again, and the doctor could not fight the urge to jump a little. Keeping his eyes trained on the bolted work desk along the back wall, he approached it, finding a fresh notebook amidst the pile there. Opening it, he grabbed a pen and jotted down a list of necessary equipment needed to continue the experiments he had been forced to do. Tearing out the paper once the list was complete, he held it out. An exasperated breath was blown out, and then the fellow came forward, enough to make out his features. The doctor, having been lured by the man (infamous for his past actions and positions), was not in awe of his person any longer, and in fact pointedly refused to look him in the face. Instead, he focused on the man's attired, the military uniform devoid of the bars and markings of his true rank. Soon enough, the fellow sniffed, muttering, " We'll bring this all to you. Keep me informed. On her, and the others."

"Yes, sir," murmured the doctor, bowing his head until footsteps retreated and the heavy door behind him clanged shut. The delicate shift of the outside lock was not lost on him, and he let out a ragged breath, his own reality of being a prisoner as well settling back upon him. He had no choice, though; very few people had any choice in the compound. He had been lured with promises of expanding his work on It was do the work, or suffer the consequences.

The stakes were too high, and he would not suffer for it.

Even if his own imprisonment and guilt for his enforced patients ate away at him. Sighing again, he stared at the mini-fridge, hoping to find results soon and praying silently for salvation amidst the new madness of his life.

* * *

 **A/N:**...Hi, all.

So, it has been an insanely long time since I have put out a new chapter. And I know a lot of people don't like the "life came at me" excuse...but, y'all, it kinda did.

I left my job because it was killing me emotionally and spiritually. I got another job to make ends meet and think about my life. I have met, fallen in love with, and moved in with a wonderful man, and now I am looking for another job. Also, the move was to three hours from where I was when the last chapter was written, completed a few weeks ago.

Life is nuts, everyone, but so, so good!

And yes, before you ask, I have seen Endgame. It destroyed me emotionally, and I don't know if I will go see any MCU movie in the theater again after it. Some points were good, some points stick in my craw, and I was BAWLING at the end of it.

Either way, I have finally found the gumption to start writing again. So, I do apologize for the wait, and I hope that this will be a good restart for us all.

So the beginning aftermath and preliminary examinations of Holly's kidnapping have started, among other things. Enjoy your speculations, y'all, this is gonna be fun.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references in the text.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all next time.


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